


A bone white haze

by Toinette93



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Altered Mental States, And then it turns to fluff, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Dreams and Nightmares, Feelings of dissociation, Friendship, Gen, POV John, Some panicking involved, crowds are scary, nothing bad actually happens, pre-show jitters, set vaguely in the early 80s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:40:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23947816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toinette93/pseuds/Toinette93
Summary: Come on, John, he tells himself. It’s just a dream. It won’t happen, not for real. He’s in the dressing room, getting ready to go onstage. He has to be ready in a few minutes. He hasn’t felt that nervous before a show in years. He needs a drink. Again.---I wanted to keep on exploring tight POV writing and weird mental states. I've done one in Roger's POV back in January and I'm sort of planning to do each of them in time. This one is John getting really scared before and around a show.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19





	A bone white haze

Come on, John, he tells himself. It’s just a dream. It won’t happen, not for real. He’s in the dressing room, getting ready to go onstage. He has to be ready in a few minutes. He hasn’t felt that nervous before a show in years. He needs a drink. Again. He’s had one already, but he needs something to numb his nerves. He needs to play, and he needs to do it right. The audience has paid, has come from far away sometimes, and they’ve got some really good music to get across.

He looks back at his bandmates. Roger and Freddie are doing… something. He’s lost the thread of their current shenanigans and he has no idea what it is they’re up to exactly, but Freddie is sing-songing, warming up his voice while Roger runs after him with a hairbrush. Brian has just raised his head from his guitar on which he was busy adjusting something although the roadies had definitely checked it already, and, having put the instrument down, has picked up his stereo camera and is calmly taking snaps of Freddie and Roger.

That makes John smile for an instant, the familiarity of it, but the dread is still there, constricting his chest, and his breathing comes fast and shallow. He squints his eyes shut, fists tight, nails biting into the skin. Closing his eyes was a bad idea. He can’t get those images out. He’s had nightmares before shows countless times before, about lights never turning on or his bass refusing to utter a sound, or even about going on with no trousers on. But the truth is, most of these technical mishaps have actually happened onstage before by now, and they always managed to keep the show going. And as for going in without trousers, well, it’s a Queen show. Freddie and Roger are half-naked on stage on a regular basis, and he has worn very short shorts. The audience would probably just cheer and take it in stride. Nothing bad would actually happen.

John tries to get the memories of these other jitter-fuelled dreams in the forefront, he’s not been truly afraid of those in years, but it doesn’t work. This one, just keeps coming back. He knows he should just open his eyes, it’s not real, none of it is, but he can’t. The particular chain of events varies each night. Sometimes it’s the lighting rig, sometimes it’s a shooter, more often than not the audience just goes from crowd in the palm of Freddie’s hand to angry mob and storms the stage, foam at the mouth, hitting, screaming, biting, ready to eat them alive.

The result is always the same, and it’s that scene that he can’t get out of his head. He himself never gets hurt, people go around him like he’s invisible, however bright yellow his outfit may be, however puffy his hair. But they see the others. He wants to help them, but he can’t move. Brian and Freddie are hit first, and John wants to at least protect Roger, but the drummer can move, and he rushes from his kits to help their friends and gets swallowed by the crowd too. Now the fury has calmed down, the crowd is gone, and John can move again, but it’s too late, and the stage is dripping blood.

There is nothing left of their instruments, a few cymbals are laying on the floor, providing sound to he eerily silent space when John bumps into them. The world has shrunk to the size of the stage, there is nothing but the stage, and the three bodies on it. Roger doesn’t have a face, his hair is red with blood; and Freddie’s chest has been ripped open, and there is blood pooling around Brian, as he tries to catch a breath, and John is frozen again, can’t even try to help them, even as he knows that he couldn’t do much. He sees… they’re dying and there is nothing he can do. He’s not quite sure if he’s breathing himself, the world is narrower and narrower, and he cannot feel it anymore.

There is a hand. On his shoulder. Somebody's talking to him, he knows that voice. Soft and getting more urgent with the passing seconds. Oh, it’s calling his name.

“John. John! Come on Deacy, what’s going on, are you alright?”

John opens his eyes and turns his face upwards in the direction of the voice. Stereo camera hanging around the neck, concerned face and unreasonable amount of hair, it’s Brian. Who is perfectly alright, if puzzled and somewhat scared by John’s lack of response. Of course he’s all right, John chides himself. It’s only a dream, nothing more, and slowly, his heartbeat is going back to normal. He still hasn’t answered.

“John?” Brian sounds proper worried now.

“Yeah, Bri, I’m alright, sorry lost in thought.”

Brian doesn’t look all that convinced, and leaving a hand on his shoulder turns around to the other two members of the group. John sees them again, and Freddie immediately uses the space vacated by Brian and crouches next to him.

“You okay, mate” asks Roger from a bit further away looking perplexed.

“Yes. I am. Just some pre-show jitters, that’s all.” And it’s not a complete lie.

John’s right hand is gently taken by Freddie, in a gesture of comfort.

“Don’t worry, Deacy, darling, you’re going to be just fine.”

John doesn’t particularly doubt his musical ability at the moment. He knows what he’s doing on that front. It’s the crowd that frightens him.

“Thank you, Fred.” he still says.

“You’re on in two minutes, boys” says someone at the door, someone who’s used enough to working with them to not give a second glance to the scene in front of his eyes.

The usual surge of adrenaline courses through John. He still feels quite uneasy but his body is getting ready for the show, years of experience kicking in.

They all get up, grab their instruments and walk towards the stage. Brian’s hand lingers on John’s shoulder, and the bass player sees the nods of encouragement from his bandmates.

Most of the time, jitters go away once he’s onstage. And it does get better, but he doesn’t completely relax, he can’t. He can’t stop half expecting something to go horribly wrong, and his entire body is tense. He keeps to the rear of the stage as much as possible, near Roger’s drums, and he doesn’t dance around half as much as he usually does. He still provides a perfect bass line, he’s a professional, and he knows his job. The audience won’t be able to tell the difference.

The show seems to last forever, and yet John does not register most of it, and the longer it lasts, the further away it seems to become. He notices at the end of Brian’s solo that he’s eaten the peanuts instead of sending them in the general direction of the guitarist’s hair. Roger notice. He sends a few peanuts himself – it would be bad to disappoint Brian’s expectation now, wouldn't it – and then puts his arm around John as they go back on stage.

At last, the show is ending, the tape to God save the Queen is on and the crowd is roaring. It’s over, finally it’s over, the crowd is happy, and everyone is fine, of course they are, and yet, John’s legs are shaky, and even with the feeling of reliefs, the images are still cursing around his mind. He can’t quite focus. He gives his bass to a roadie, he’s not quite sure which, and then he climbs in the limousine. He’d normally be alone in the back of the car, but he’s seated next to Freddie, Freddie who would throw a fit if the town did not have limos, covered in sweat from the show, is pressed into him, on the other side, back to the road, are Brian and Roger. John is not quite sure what is going on, why they’ve all piled up in the same car. Freddie’s hand is briefly on his forehead and John’s quite sure there’s been a conversation of sorts and he’s answered question but he can’t for the life of him remember what they were.

Then his body is in a hotel room, there are only the four of them there, which is odd, but welcome, and there is water going down his throat, and he notices the hand on his own, guiding the glass to his lips. Strong and calloused, although there are also a few blisters in place, but relatively small and without broken nails, it’s Roger’s right hand, the left one is holding his shoulder. John is seated on a bed, Freddie on the other side, looking him over. John looks up and Brian is there too, hesitating in front of the telephone.

“Maybe we should just call a doctor?” the guitarist says.

Oh, they’re talking about him, John understands, and the world around is getting into focus again, and he can feel the aches and pains from the show in his shoulders and feet, the bland but oh so welcome feeling of the water in his mouth, and the smell of his own sweat. To be honest, he stinks, but then they all do. He’s in Freddie’s room, he knows it now. Calling a doctor seems rather superfluous. He feels fine, physically at least. Even if his memories of the last few hours are a bit sketchy.

John pushes Roger’s hand away, and puts the glass of water back on the nightstand.

“I’m fine, Brian.” he says.

“Back with us, mate?” asks Roger

“Yes. Did I go somewhere?”

The chuckles Roger gives to that is somewhat forced.

“You didn’t seem to be quite present for a while, dear.” says Freddie.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to get help?” asks Brian who is still hovering around the telephone.

“No, no, I’m fine, quite alright, what are we all doing in Freddie’s room?”

“You gave us a bit of a scare, dear, we did not want to leave you all on you own.” says Freddie

“Oh. Hum, you didn’t need to y’know. I wasn’t....”

Roger shakes his head.

“Of course, we did. What happened?” Roger asks.

“Oh, hum, just a bit anxious, I guess, from the show, y’know, it was quite a big audience.”

“Far from the biggest we’ve had, and more than a little anxious.” notes Brian, absentmindedly.

And it’s true. They’re in the middle of nowhere in America, and they’ve played far bigger crowds before. He shrugs. He doesn’t want to talk about any of it. His bandmate seem to understand because they don’t ask him anything, just staying close and giving him water and food, even if John can still see the frequent looks sent his way.

“I’ve got an idea.” says Roger. Everyone looks to the drummer, slightly alarmed. Roger’s ideas can range from brilliant to completely insane, and are often both. John is worried Roger is going to offer to go out, both because bars in the midwest can be dreary and because even if he’s feeling far better than earlier in the evening, he is exhausted and does not feel up to seeing people right now. Freddie, Roger, and Brian don’t count, they are not exactly people, they’re Freddie, Roger and Brian. And he really doesn’t want to be alone, either. Roger keeps on going.

“We’re going to build a pillow fort.”

Freddie is immediately on board. He generally is. He asks for Roger’s key and goes to get supplies (both pillows and the content of the minibar) in the drummer’s room. John is relieved the idea doesn’t include going out but he’s also puzzled. He’s familiar with the game but it’s one he expects to play with his children, not his bandmates. He exchanges a puzzled glance with Brian who shrugs with resignation, and says he’ll go take a shower and be back. John does the same, using Freddie’s bathroom. When he goes out, Brian is back and has also brought supplies, and John even gives his keys to Roger so that they can have all their sheets and pillows.

It turns out Roger’s version of the game includes alcohol, snacks, and lot of sneaking up to other builders to throw a pillow in their face. Oh, and threatening Freddie with tickles. Which is absolutely hilarious, John has to admit, as he joins in the game, and after a bit, even Brian is fully in, his competitive streak showing, even if his height makes any sneaking quite difficult.

The game calms down after a while, and even with all the infighting, they have built quite the castle. Worthy of four queens, Freddie proclaims. None of them has the courage to get the sheets back on the beds, and since Freddie’s huge mattress has already been put on the floor at some point John just falls asleep on it, first to do so, while Freddie has gone to the bathroom, to the sound of Brian and Roger’s voice talking about something. He’s also the first to wake up the next morning, no memory of any dream, awoken by Freddie rolling over directly onto him. He pushes the singer aside, none too gently, yet Freddie only groans and keeps on sleeping. He looks quiet and happy in his sleep. It’s early still. John looks around, and notices Brian and Roger still seating next to each other, Brian’s back on the wall, Roger’s head on his shoulder, they have apparently fallen asleep while debating whatever their latest disagreement may have been. John smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello people !
> 
> Happy May 1st, hope you are doing good. 
> 
> This is it for this little fic, thanks for reading and tell me what you thought (I wasn't quite sure how to rate and tag this, tell me if you think I forgot something/should tag differently). 
> 
> The title is from the Prophet's song. 
> 
> Take care,
> 
> Toinette out


End file.
